


and here's your invitation

by amscray_punk



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired By Tumblr, Inspired by Music, M/M, Smoking, i'm not gonna ramble in the tags for once just see the author's note, just in case, race is the lead singer and he has blue hair thanks, uhhh some newsies in a rock band, yet another take on race singing hello brooklyn for spot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: The band's back in New York after a cross-country tour, and Race has something up his sleeve.*A third take on an absolutely wonderful idea dropped in my tumblr inbox by A_Butter_Churner (@the-butter-churner on tumblr).**Rating for language and mentions of weed/cigarettes.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	and here's your invitation

**Author's Note:**

> A few weeks ago, @the-butter-churner slid into my [tumblr ask box](https://amscraypunk.tumblr.com/post/639428793168183296/concept-poprock-singer-race-singing-hello) (PLEASE do this if you ever feel so inclined, I love it so much) with a truly incredible idea about Race singing 'Hello, Brooklyn' by All Time Low to an audience that included his ex-boyfriend Spot and now there are _three_ versions of this idea and I just think that's really cool. 
> 
> [Here's](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907859) @the-butter-churner's version of this and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28786725) is @violetwolfraven's version! They're both soo good, make sure to check them out if you haven't already!
> 
> I didn't exactly go the ex-boyfriend route, more like a fling, and I also decided to make this song belong to their band instead of All Time Low (hey ATL don't sue me pls&thx) but anyway here's my take! Pls enjoy <3

“Those things’ll kill ya, y’know,”

“We can only hope,” Race quips without taking his eyes off of the tendrils of smoke swirling up into the night sky. He thought he was alone, but it isn't the first time someone's followed him into the alley behind the club after a show. There’s a snort of amusement from his right that’s almost enough to pique his curiosity. Almost. 

“I dunno,” The unfamiliar voice drawls; deep, accented, a little rough. Race takes another drag of his cigarette. “Pretty voice like that, I’d think you’d wanna take care of it.”

“And what do _you_ know about my pretty voice, Brooklyn?” Race smirks, relishing in the shiver of adrenaline that rushes through him when the man takes another step toward him.

“I know it won’t last long if ya keep that shit up,” He sounds almost smug, and Race’s curiosity gets the better of him. There's a gentle brush against his hand and he looks down just in time to see his cigarette plucked from his fingers. His indignant protest dies in his throat as he drags his eyes up over the man in front of him; striking, handsome features, piercing gaze, well-worn leather jacket that does nothing to hide his physique. “And that would be a shame.”

“Would it?” Race’s voice comes out a little quieter than he hoped, though no less taunting and he rolls his eyes for good measure. The man chuckles.

“Your name’s Racetrack, right?” He asks, and Race can’t tell if his heart jumps from the way his name sounds in that voice or the sparks that shower his feet as his stolen cigarette is ground into the brick wall. Race narrows his eyes and nods. “That explains it.”

Race’s jaw clenches in annoyance; annoyed at this man’s audacity, that he suddenly couldn’t care less about that cigarette. Annoyed that he just wants him to keep talking in that accent. Maybe say his name again. 

“Oh?” Race challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning one shoulder casually against the wall. He huffs a breath, blowing a lock of hair out of his face. “Do tell.” But the guy just shakes his head, and his handsome smirk is as infuriating as the half teal, half blonde curl that falls right back into Race’s eyes.

“It's that whole, ‘live fast, die young’ thing, right?” He says, and Race’s heart thuds in his chest when he reaches out to brush Race’s hair aside and their eyes lock for the first time. He holds Race’s gaze just for a second before he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Pretty boy, pretty voice… I’d hate to see all that talent go to waste,” He pauses, dark eyes roaming over Race without even a hint of shame. “At least before I get to see you up on that stage again.” 

Race smirks, reaching out to trail his fingertip down the middle of the man’s chest. 

“I'm sorry to say you’re gonna have to wait,”

“S’that so?”

“Mmhmm,” Race nods, smirking as he toys with the hem of his shirt. “Leavin’ on tour soon. Gonna be a minute before we’re back in Brooklyn,” He teases, then frowns. “You’ve called me ‘pretty’ three times now, y’know. I think you’re legally obligated to tell me your name.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“I dunno, I kinda like the way ‘Brooklyn’ sounds in that _pretty voice_ ,” He shoots back, eyes sparkling with amusement and Race grins back. “Might have to keep that one, for now.” 

“Four times, then,” Race says softly. The man holds his gaze for another moment before he steps closer.

“Tell you what,” He says conversationally, and Race’s breath hitches in his throat when he reaches into Race’s back pocket and pulls out his phone, smirking as he types. “Why don't you let me know when you play another show in Brooklyn,” He makes eye contact as he slips the phone back into his pocket. Race swallows hard. “Maybe I’ll be there.”

“Maybe I will,” Race says, happy to hear that his voice is steady even as his heart pounds. He watches the man look him over one more time before he starts to back away, toward the street.

“See ya ‘round, Racer.”

Race’s heart stops in his chest at the nickname, brand new and yet already so familiar and he can’t even get a grip to pull out his phone, to read the new contact info. The man’s almost to the sidewalk when Race calls out.

“Hey, Brooklyn!” 

He stops in his tracks, and Race just _knows_ he’s smirking again and he can’t really even believe he’s doing this but he jogs over to meet him. 

“Listen, we don’t leave for another couple of days, and, well, aside from this club, I haven't spent much time in Brooklyn…” Race pauses, grinning when the man’s eyebrows raise in interest. After a beat, he holds out his hand. Race takes it immediately.

“Come with me.”

*

His name is Spot.

And he won't tell Race his real name, or how he got such a stupid nickname, or why the hell he even allows anyone to call him that, anyway. And _Spot_ becomes _Spotty_ in record time, the same way he was the first one to call him not Race or Racetrack but _Racer_ , and the sky begins to lighten and they're tangled up in each other and Race isn't ready to go. 

So he stays.

He stays in Brooklyn for two full days but the time bleeds together in a blur of teasing laughter, roaming hands, deep kisses so heady and intoxicating Race knows he'll write about them someday, whether he wants to or not. 

His name is Spot, and that’s the only name Race can give his friends when they text and ask where he is, where he's been, remind him they're leaving tomorrow. As if he could forget.

As if he could forget the way his stomach drops every time he runs his hands through Spot’s hair, every time Spot walks him backwards and presses him against the wall of his apartment. And it’s crazy to ask him to come on tour, Race knows that; he's known the guy for all of two days and he doesn't even know his _name_ but he still has to bite his tongue to keep the question from slipping out when the cab pulls up.

His name is Spot, and Race doesn't know what they are, what they could be, what they will be to each other but he knows he wants it to be more. More than what they have time for, more than the brush of lips as he opens the cab door and lingers, waiting. Spot’s waiting, too, waiting for Race to twist a hand into his t-shirt and drag him in for one more kiss, one more assurance that this is _something_ , means something. Spot doesn't pull back right away, instead leaning in to speak quietly into Race’s ear.

_Sean_.

His name is Sean, and Race can't let himself watch out the window as the cab drives away.

*

If those two days were but a moment, the next six months feel like a year.

Oh, there are plenty of distractions, no shortage of antics to occupy Race’s time and attention as they travel across the country, drinking too much, sleeping too little. Too many joints and too many cigarettes, _those things’ll kill ya_ floating through his mind with every flick of his lighter. He’s uncharacteristically quiet when it’s his turn to drive, and he tells them it’s to rest his voice. But he scarcely notices the landscape pass by and change; too busy remembering those hands, their strong grip on his waist, soft brush of fingers working through his blue-tipped hair. He keeps forgetting to dye it again.

And when he’s not driving or drinking or smoking or singing, he’s writing. Scribbling the thoughts that turn into lyrics in the worn composition notebook that’s always within reach, writing the songs he’s not sure he’ll ever have the guts to sing. But when he’s curled up in the passenger’s seat, knees tight to his chest as they cross over the state line back into New York, looking down at his phone with his finger hovering over the screen, he knows he doesn’t have a choice. He knows that in just a couple days, he’ll be back in Brooklyn, back on that stage with nothing to lose. 

_Nothing to lose_ , he reminds himself as he takes a deep breath and hits **send**.

*

Race doesn’t really get nervous anymore. 

Not after playing so many shows in almost every state, countless eyes watching his every move. And the same holds true tonight, back at the dingy little club in Brooklyn. He’s in his element on stage, in his favorite lace-up leather pants and ripped tank top, black nail polish chipped and eyeliner smudged. The familiar weight of his guitar slung over his shoulder is as grounding as Al's steady bass drum, the pulsing lights and haze of weed and cigarette smoke in the air. But when Jack plays the last notes of his solo as their penultimate song comes to a close, Race's stomach does a little flip. 

He doesn’t even know for sure if he’s here. He _said_ he’d be here, and Spot doesn’t seem like the type to break his word, but he hasn't _seen_ him yet. And God, what if everything’s changed? It’s been six _months_. He can’t assume that Spot’s been thinking about him just as much, or even the same way. Can’t expect him to wait for him. But he can hope, and it’s that hope that lets him step up to the mic stand and wait for the crowd to quiet.

“We’ve only got one more song tonight,” He says, grinning in delight when the crowd groans in disappointment. “But it’s a new one, you’re the first to hear it, and I think you’re gonna like it.” 

Race looks out over the crowd one more time, but it’s in vain; the lights are too bright in his eyes to make out any faces. He silently counts down from three, and strikes the opening chords.

_This city, so pretty_

_Under moonlit skies, we'll be hanging like a cigarette_

_So stunning, start running_

_Tonight's like a knife, would you cut me with your kiss?_

_I bleed, red lips, you're unbelievable_

_Can't miss this chance to take you_

_And here's my invitation_

It’s easy to lose himself in the music, the chord progressions, the words that have rattled around in his mind for months and he goes into the chorus with a smile.

_Hello, Brooklyn, hey, LA_

_Take the streets all night 'cause we sleep all day_

_When the world comes crashing down, who's ready to party?_

_Hello, Brooklyn, hey, LA_

_Coast to coast I'll take you down in flames_

_Let the good times roll, we can let go_

_Everybody knows there's a party at the end of the world_

The crowd goes nuts, of course–they _are_ in Brooklyn, after all. And if you don’t look too closely, don’t separate the words, it’s just a fun party song. There’s a movement off to the left of the crowd that catches Race’s eye, but he doesn’t have time to focus on that, just now.

_This city is your city_

_Heels on the sidewalk begging for a back-beat_

_Don't worry, I fight dirty_

_Tonight's like a right hook, knock you off your feet_

_I'll be yours truly unbelievable, can't miss this chance to take you_

_And here's your invitation_

And really that’s what this is all about, anyway; a chance, an invitation. An offer to pick up where they left off, if he wants it. Race hopes like hell he wants it. He lets Jack and Romeo sing the chorus as he crosses the stage, eyes still searching even as he interacts with the crowd. 

_Hello, Brooklyn, hey, LA_

_Take the streets all night 'cause we sleep all day_

_When the world comes crashing down, who's ready to party?_

_Hello, Brooklyn, hey, LA_

_Coast to coast I'll take you down in flames_

_Let the good times roll, we can let go_

_Everybody knows there's a party at the end of the world_

The bridge sneaks up on him the way deadlines always do and he hurries back to center stage. There’s only one pair of eyes he wishes he could feel on him now and he closes his own as he folds both hands over the mic.

_Kiss it all goodbye_

_Tonight you've never been more alive (You're so alive)_

_You're not afraid to die_

_And I can see it in your eyes, your eyes_

His eyes stay closed as he sings, imagining the next tour, imagining Spot waiting for him just offstage every night. The drums kick in and he dives back into the last chorus, bouncing on the balls of his feet, Jack and Romeo all but screaming their backup vocals as they bring the show to a close.

_Hello, Brooklyn, hey, LA_

_Take the streets all night 'cause we sleep all day_

_When the world comes crashing down, who's ready to party?_

_Hello, Brooklyn, hey, LA_

_Coast to coast I'll take you down in flames_

_Let the good times roll, we can let go_

_Everybody knows there's a party at the end of the world_

_London, Tokyo, Boston, Frisco_

_DC, Chicago, Baltimore, Toronto_

_Memphis, Rio, Dublin, Mexico_

_Paris, here we go_

_Everybody knows there's a party at the end of the world_

Race is still floored, every _single_ time, by the high-pitched screams and shouts, the pleas for an encore. But tonight he can’t get offstage, into the hall, out the back door and into the alley fast enough. His hands are trembling, whether from lingering nerves or adrenaline, he’s not quite sure, and he fumbles with his pack of cigarettes for a moment before he’s able to pull one out and stick it between his lips. He lights it quickly, inhaling deeply and dropping his head back against the brick as he exhales slowly, watching the smoke as it floats away and dissipates. He catches movement again, this time from the right, and he doesn’t even try to stop the smile from spreading. He’s not surprised when the words reach his ears, but he does savor them, savor the voice and the teasing tone he hopes will become familiar again.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you those things’ll kill ya?”

Race _really_ wants to play it cool and aloof but he just can’t, not after all the waiting and the thinking and the dreaming and the wanting. He glances at the cigarette between his fingers for half a second before he drops it on the ground and puts it out with the toe of his sneaker, looking up with a smile that he knows Spot can see right through–and the smirk that Spot gives him in return makes it easy for Race to let him.

“Hey, Brooklyn.”


End file.
